THE FORKS – The RCM lieutenant in the orange bomber walks with the patrol officer to a Coupris Kineema parked out front. There, the lieutenant updates her on the stereo-investigation. But the motor-carriage is armoured and soundproof, and it is dark, therefore impossible to tell what was said between them. When the pair eventually step out of the Kineema's blue-and-white carapace, the patrol officer glances up at the dimly glowing windows of room three.

In room three, a possibly Vaasan cougar catnaps, biding her time, to the white noise of a shortwave radio hissing and crackling on the table.

In your psychedelic hostel room two doors down, you and your partner both let out long sighs at the same time, then give each other amused half-smiles.

JEAN VICQUEMARE – Leans on the edge of the table, nursing his coffee. As you re-take your seat, he takes another sip, says, "Okay, say things."

YOU – Say a question thing: "Can this wait till morning?"

JEAN VICQUEMARE – "Oh, I wish it could. I wish it could - honestly. But I'm gonna say *no* right now, just to see if you'll keep your word."

SUGGESTION – You know what to do. It's the only way to keep regaining his trust.

YOU – Sip your hot instant coffee. Yawn behind your fist. "Okay," you pause to compose your thoughts, "I noticed that Kim had smoked his daily ciggie in the middle of the day – he usually lights up after completing all his tasks. The only time I'd ever *seen* him do that was when I woke up after being shot."

JEAN VICQUEMARE – Stares through you. Then expels a quick breath as if in reaction to some sudden pain.

INLAND EMPIRE — Like a sword, your words ran through him.

JEAN VICQUEMARE — Lights a cigarette, gets up to grab an ashtray, retakes his seat. Bleakly meets your eyes.

INLAND EMPIRE – Astra chocolate and coffee always tastes like grey eyes and a black uniform suit.

YOU – Sip your coffee, trail your gaze along the edge where Jean's jacket collar touches his skin. "So, I ask him what happened – because he's already had his smoke."

JEAN VICQUEMARE – Rubs the side of his neck slowly, as if your look is tangible. Sighs, lowers his hand to the table. "I think you were a sort of repentance for Lieutenant Kitsuragi."

YOU – "I'm not sure I follow, Vic …"

JEAN VICQUEMARE – "Well, I guess you aren't following because it never crossed your mind to wonder why he was in Martinaise alone – because you were busy being Detective God *alone*," he says. "Harry, his partner killed himself."

HALF LIGHT – Whoaaa! Is he fuckin' serious?!

JEAN VICQUEMARE – Nods grimly at you. "I thought that maybe Lieutenant Kitsuragi, like, tried to make amends – with you. Maybe there's a bit of guilt there …" He shakes his head. "I don't know."

SUGGESTION – Do not ask Kim about this – he won't talk about it. It's too sad, still too raw.

PAIN THRESHOLD – Ouch.

JEAN VICQUEMARE – Shrugs, gestures impatiently with his cigarette. "Let's move on."

YOU – Take a deep breath … "So he says avoiding a civil war in Revachol is his primary concern, but he's *hearing rumours*."

JEAN VICQUEMARE – "Rumours?" Leans a little closer towards you. "What kind of rumours?"

YOU – "Well, then we heard footsteps, which turned out to be yours. This was after your last meeting with the captain, when you walked into C-Wing and heard me laughing out loud?"

JEAN VICQUEMARE – Nods once to show he remembers.

YOU – Shake your head. "Nothing was funny."

JEAN VICQUEMARE – "I get it. So, then you met on the roof?"

YOU – Nod. "Yeah." You gulp down the rest of your coffee, lick your lips, and clunk the cup onto the table. Frown down at it, remembering. "He was reluctant to talk about it that time, too. Told him I'm not from the rat squad. But still couldn't get the whole story out of him. You know how it is."

ESPRIT DE CORPS – He does know how it is. For instance, it would never even cross his mind to tell his partner and squadmates that they are *cramping his style*.

JEAN VICQUEMARE – Drags on his ciggie, squints against the smoke. "So, avoiding civil war, and hearing rumours …"

YOU – "Right. He's worried that unchecked civil unrest would lead to another attempt at revolution, causing warship Archer to level us in little over a minute. But his biggest worry seems to be divisions *within* the RCM – radicalized officers taking political sides instead of, you know, being neutral and doing their duty."

JEAN VICQUEMARE – "The captain has been keeping very close tabs on the slightest whiff of radicalization in our ranks." He shakes his head, brushes a stray strand of black hair out of his eyes, coughs. "It's only 2%."

REACTION SPEED – So he's been discussing RCM stats with the captain? In those meetings without you? What else have they talked about?

YOU – "So, you've been discussing this with Pryce?"

JEAN VICQUEMARE – Nods, taps ash into the ashtray, then offers the ciggie to you.

YOU – Take it.

PERCEPTION – The filter's damp from his coffee lips as you suck on it, tonguing the cigarette smoke as it tries to escape from your mouth in a languid white wave. Tastes like a kiss.

INLAND EMPIRE – Like so many memories.

JEAN VICQUEMARE – Stares at your mouth, then meets your eyes and holds them. His pupils are dilated. "Now," he loosens his tie, undoes a couple of shirt buttons, "I really cannot wait for this fucking day to end, but we first need to discuss *that* as well."

ELECTROCHEMISTRY – Did you see him sexing up the ol' uniform just then? Yours could do with a bit of sexing up, too.

YOU – I'm not wearing a tie, and my collar buttons are already undone.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY – You know what else you should undo? Your pants. You should unzip them.

JEAN VICQUEMARE – Gets up again, crosses the tiny hostel room and stealthily opens the door enough to stick his head out through the gap, making sure there's no-one loitering in the corridor. Then he closes the door just as carefully, and returns to his seat, plucking what's left of his ciggie from your fingers on the way.

He takes a drag, then hunches over the round table so that he's closer to you. "The captain has formed a strike force from almost everyone in C-Wing," he says, sotto voce. "A *special* strike force, Harry. You understand?"

ELECTROCHEMISTRY – I don't know if it's the instant coffee you just pretty much inhaled, or the nicotine hit, or both, but suddenly you're wide awake, abuzz, baby.

HALF LIGHT – It's the adrenaline. This sounds like some sort of secret service shit, Harry.

REACTION SPEED – He said *almost* everyone.

YOU – Frown and nod. "Okay … Continue."

JEAN VICQUEMARE – Directs his stare to the bathroom door for a moment, then stubs his cigarette butt out in the ashtray. "Let's take this conversation into the bathroom, okay?" He leans back, glancing around. "This dump's security level is officially shit-tier as of tonight, and I'd rather have an extra door between us and any ears in the corridor."

HOSTEL ROOM BATHROOM – There's a cramped area between the mouldy bath and the sink, where you and your partner stand facing each other under the bright overhead light warming the tops of your heads.

PERCEPTION – You hear the shower-head dripping into the tub behind you. The smell of Jean's cologne still hangs in the humid air, overpowering the base-note of bleach.

MIRROR – There's leftover steam on the mirror, probably because there's no window, and the fan is off. It makes your clean-shaven face look painterly.

JEAN VICQUEMARE – Leans his hips back against the sink, lowers his voice: "Okay, so, it's a strike force entrusted with preventing another revolution, or, *or* turning a political one into a social one."

REACTION SPEED – A what now? How long has he known about it?

YOU – "Wait, Jean. How long have you known …? Who else knows?"

PAIN THRESHOLD – You get that horrible sinking feeling.

JEAN VICQUEMARE – "*That's* your first question …?!" He sighs in your face. "Fuck it." He continues in a measured tone: "Okay, I've known since my last meeting with Pryce – before we went back to the Belles Lettres studio. As for *who else knows* … Well, now, everyone except for Trant and Lieutenant Kitsuragi – though Pryce has added the lieutenant to his list. It's just that, the captain and I thought it would be better for you to, like, convince him."

LOGIC - Trant Heidelstam is a civilian.

YOU – ...

SUGGESTION — Wouldn't it be better for his partner to *convince him*?

JEAN VICQUEMARE – "Gottlieb is why you weren't let in on it right from the start, Harry." He rubs his forehead. "So the captain left it up to me to decide when …"

YOU – "And you waited till tonight? What changed?"

PERCEPTION (HEARING) – Your voice sounds odd.

ENDURANCE – It's as if something inside you snaps. Suddenly, it's too hot inside your uniform. You can feel the heat trying to escape from your undone shirt collar as you start to sweat.

PAIN THRESHOLD – Tears prick your nostrils, your eyes.

COMPOSURE – You blink them back, swallow them down. Blink, and sniff and swallow. That's it.

EMPATHY – You're hurt. Why is that?

YOU – "I don't like being lied to."

JEAN VICQUEMARE – "Are you fucking kidding?" Inspects your face, stares into your eyes. "I didn't *lie* to you." He raises an index finger. "I'm your partner. I answer for you when you're not there."

YOU - "But I was there."

JEAN VICQUEMARE - "I'm your partner," he says stubbornly.

RHETORIC - There's a dependent, implicit premise connecting the independent ones, and it's this: partners do not lie to each other.

LOGIC – Vomit Words is applying the principle of charity.

HALF LIGHT – But should you be charitable? I say get your anger on.

YOU – "Betrayed, then."

AUTHORITY – Your judgement strikes like a gavel.

JEAN VICQUEMARE – "*No*, Harry." He shakes his index finger at you. "Go on, have another guess." He clenches his hand into a fist.

YOU – "Okay, why not."

HALF LIGHT - He has his fist practically in your face. You hear that drumming noise in your ears? That's your pulse, pounding at 100 bmp like war drums inspiring you into conflict.

YOU - Shift your focus from his fist to his eyes. "How about *asshole*."

JEAN VICQUEMARE – "Wow, third time lucky. Good job," he nods. Lowers his fist to his side. Exhales slowly. "In fact, I was worried. I'm *always* worried about you. So maybe try being a little less sensitive, all right?"

HALF LIGHT – He doesn't sound worried. He sounds angered by your aggression.

SUGGESTION – Stop provoking him. Seriously.

DRAMA – Thy partner's *sudden and quick in a quarrel*, sire.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY – What?! It's a *great* idea. Then you can have aggressive make up sex, baby. You should get *angrier*. Your prick stirs at the thought. See?

YOU – *No*. I'm not letting this turn into a turn-on.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Formidable: Success] – Why not? It's hot shit. You can't control a fucking *hard-on* - it's autonomic. Besides, you know he's only fuckin' worried about one thing: a relapse.

PAIN THRESHOLD – Ouch.

YOU – "Worried?" You laugh in a way that suggests nothing is funny. It boils up out of you. "We both know you only worry about one fucking thing, Vic: me relapsing."

COMPOSURE – Your eyes are watering again. Didn't you know that was a raw nerve *before* you touched it?

EMPATHY – Now, now. There, there. You know it's not the only thing Jean worries about.

JEAN VICQUEMARE – Tilts his head, grey eyes glinting under the harsh electric light as he assesses you.

AUTHORITY – He considers apologizing for not telling you sooner, but decides against it.

JEAN VICQUEMARE – "You've lost it." There's a glimmer of compassion there, in the grey, just before he rubs the back of his neck and looks away. "Fuck it. Let's not get into this now. But we will — later."

HALF LIGHT – You *don't care* about that glimmer because he's right – you *have* lost it. So, what's it gonna be? Fight or flight?

YOU – "After *all* that I've done, and no matter how hard I *try* …" You step back, feeling the edge of the bath press against your calf, as you mutter: "I can't take this wasteland of reality anymore."

VOLITION – Yes, you can. Thousands of people take it every day without getting their drink on as soon as something makes them go boo boo. Get a grip.

JEAN VICQUEMARE – "What was that?" He sounds alert. Squints at you. "Sounded like you said *wasteland of reality*?"

ELECTROCHEMISTRY – Abort, eject! There's a teeny tiny jewellery box of a bar downstairs. Bottles and liquids shining like rubies, emeralds, citrines, diamonds. Sure, it's closed, but that's never stopped you before.

VOLITION – God, no!

JEAN VICQUEMARE – "Harry …? Keep your shit together. *Try*."

YOU - Try to walk past him to the closed door of the bathroom, to eject from this whole scenario.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY – Atta boy!

HALF LIGHT – Yeah, atta boy. Everyone can fuck right off.

VOLITION – NO! Harry, just say *no* to this. No, no, *no*.

INTERFACING — As you brush past, your partner's hand presses flat against your chest, holding you back.

PAIN THRESHOLD – Your chest tightens under his push, as if he's reaching inside and squeezing.

JEAN VICQUEMARE – "We're *still* talking," he says, tone measured.

YOU – Feel your fingernails dig into the palms of your hands. "Fuck off!"

HALF LIGHT – That felt good, didn't it? You can breathe again. You should tell people to fuck off more often.

RHETORIC – Oh, no, you didn't. No, you did not say that, *you brute*. Not to *him*. I am *not* responsible for this. No matter how hard *I* try ...

JEAN VICQUEMARE – "*Fuck off*?" His face pales as he blinks aggressively. His breathing quickens. "How about *no*." The hand pressed up against your chest grabs a fistful of your shirt. "How does *no* sound?"

INTERFACING – You close your fingers over his fist to pull him off you.

But his other hand clamps around the back of your neck, and you struggle to perform a counter-manoeuvre —

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT – Pathetic, maggot!

YOU - I don't want to hurt him physically.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT — Bullshit. Take yourself to the nearest gym and give me reps!

ESPRIT DE CORPS — He is also trying to stop you without causing physical harm.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — He was gonna kiss you, man. But you reacted the wrong way.

YOU – Stop struggling, become completely still, and look him in the eye. "Let go, Jean."

JEAN VICQUEMARE — Hesitates, then loosens his grip on your nape and shirt. "Fuck you — it was a mistake. Okay? Not telling you sooner was a mistake." He waves his hands. "It will never happen again, Harry." Runs his fingers lightly over your face, in contrast to the rough handling he just dished out. "*Okay*?"

DRAMA – 'Tis sincere, sire.

INLAND EMPIRE – He means it with his whole blue heart.

ESPRIT DE CORPS – With his whole blue soul.

HALF LIGHT — But you've got adrenaline up to the eyeballs now.

ENDURANCE — It's true. You're shaking all over — can't even hide it.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — Feels delicious.

RHETORIC — More important: Has he left anything else unsaid?

YOU — Look at him. "So, is that all? Or is there something else that you've been waiting for an appropriate time to tell me?"

JEAN VICQUEMARE – "Yes," he nods, runs a hand back through his hair. "I pulled Mack and Chester out of Coal City when I radio'd Jules. What about you and the *wasteland of reality*?"

DRAMA — Lie.

YOU — *No*. "It's a thought ..."

JEAN VICQUEMARE — His eyes turn cold and steely. "I *know* what it is. I would never let you leave after hearing you say that you *can't take it anymore*."

YOU — Avert your eyes. "It was just a thought ..."

JEAN VICQUEMARE – "He just admits it," he says to himself. "You see, *there*. I knew it." He points at your chest. "Earlier tonight, you said you're *not going to slip up again — not ever*. Those were *your* words. So, I *do* worry that you'll relapse; I worry about it when I should be working; I worry about it when I should be sleeping. Because I really, really do not like shitkid. Because I do not want to lose *you* again."

EMPATHY — It's not only about you being shitkid. His fear is you'll forget him again. There's guilt there, too.

PAIN THRESHOLD — This hurts more than him keeping things from you.

YOU – Try to make light of the situation: "You know, if you're going to ride my ass all the time, I'd prefer literally over figuratively."

JEAN VICQUEMARE — "*So* funny, Harry."

RHETORIC — Well, I thought it was not bad, so far as your jokes go.

SUGGESTION — The time for words is over.

YOU — Take hold of his head, slide your fingers into his soft black hair, against his scalp, press up on his body and kiss him. Kiss him like his mouth is a juicy peach you're biting into, sucking on.

JEAN VICQUEMARE – Gives as good as he gets.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY – Oh, it's *on*, and the disco ball in your head is *spinning* right round, baby, right round. I can't believe you're thinking this shit, but here it is: this'll be so much fucking better than getting your drink on!

VOLITION – For once, we agree.

INLAND EMPIRE – But the inside of his mouth tastes like Astra Chocolate and pain. When will you stop hurting him, and yourself?

YOU — Whose side are you on?!

INLAND EMPIRE — There's only one side here.

CONCEPTUALIZATION — Two halves. Head and tail.

YOU — Oh ...

PERCEPTION – Impressions. A reeling blur of sensations and impressions as the two of you turn into a hurricane: lips dragging down your neck, a tongue pushing against your jugular. Fingers groping at belts. A metallic rip as the zip splits open. Hand squeezing your prick, your ass cheek.

A black-and-white trail of hastily removed uniforms from the bathroom to the pair of blue RCM Carry-Alls by the wardrobe. Chemical taste of cologne in your mouth and nose.

Your holster and sidearm discarded, swapped for lube and a ribbon of wrapped condoms.

HAND/EYE COORDINATION – A crinkle of tearing foil and plastic lining. A sigh in a moment of silence as you unroll a condom onto his cock. Smell of heating lube.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY – Take it off.

YOU – What?!

ELECTROCHEMISTRY – Ever barebacked? Seems like *partners* would – or aren't you *committed* and *faithful* and *honest* like that?

YOU – I am. I'm totally taken.

INLAND EMPIRE – In the Whirling, a young man with a honeyed smile says, "Maybe you *were* homo-sexual in the past, maybe all of that has been *repressed*", then circles his hands around you. A few metres behind him, a man in a blond wig and sunglasses darker than welding glasses sits and stares in your direction, faking rigidly relaxed body language though his hands are fists. Beside him, his companion, a not-very-horse-faced woman, looks extremely uncomfortable and worried. Don't go there now. Trust me.

YOU – But *I didn't* –

PERCEPTION – Feel of dusty wallpaper under your slick fingertips. Textured. A hand lifts yours above your head. Fingers thread, gripping. A dick prods, slips against your ass. A brush of breath and lips on your back —

PAIN THRESHOLD – Then a quick sharp scrape of facial hair across your trapezius, across a ridge of your spine.

YOU — Grit your teeth and hiss.

PAIN THRESHOLD — Burning skin.

JEAN VICQUEMARE — Tongues the same spot, slowly kissing it better.

PAIN THRESHOLD — It stings so good.

PERCEPTION – He's taking his time now, slowing down.

INTERFACING – An index and middle finger trace lightly down the length of your spine.

YOU – Feel your solar plexus melt, your cheeks clench in anticipation. You smile a little.

INLAND EMPIRE – When you fuck, it's deliberate. Sober. Full of feeling. Pushed in all the way, he holds you tight and close and grinds. You glow, open your mouth and blind Elysium with light, each movement inside you an exultation.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY – Holy fuck, Harry.

JEAN VICQUEMARE — "God, Harry …"

SINGLE BED – Across the dark room, the sound of anodic music vibrates through the south-facing windowpanes. Motor-carriages zoom past the hostel on their way to The Burnt Out Quarter for some unlawful street-racing. The mattress is too short, but you're spooning so you fit. The pillow is lumpy, but you're sharing it so who cares. A watch ticks under your chin. On your partner's wrist. His arm wrapped around you from behind, still holding tight. You feel warm and cozy. But neither one of you is sleeping.

YOU – "You know what would be nice?"

JEAN VICQUEMARE – Speaks near your ear: "I do. You, keeping your shit together, however traumatic it gets. Honestly, I think you should see Gottlieb about it — now that you're not drinking anymore."

RHETORIC — He means now that you're not drinking anymore, you'll be able to go back on antidepressants.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY - Fuck that shit.

YOU – "Uh, I was gonna say us, like this, but you falling asleep while still inside me. It'd be like truth."

JEAN VICQUEMARE – Lets the silence stretch, but you can practically hear him thinking.

SINGLE BED - The springs in the mattress creak as you plant a kiss on the back of his hand. "I need to clear something up. Explain."

JEAN VICQUEMARE – "Okay …" He sounds both weary and wary. "Explain away."

YOU – Draw a breath. "In Martinaise, I think you maybe saw me speaking to a young man – his, uh, friend witnessed the so-called hanging."

JEAN VICQUEMARE – "I maybe saw you speaking to a *male prostitute*. I maybe saw him put his arms around you."

YOU – "That's what I need to explain. I was *only* speaking to him."

JEAN VICQUEMARE – "Yes, and I could hear what you were *speaking to him* about – possibly the whole establishment could – and I was wondering why."

SINGLE BED — It feels hotter under the sheets.

PERCEPTION (SMELL) – You can smell yourself. Post-coital. Have you noticed that you no longer stink like stale booze? Congratulations.

VOLITION — I told you it would leave in time.

YOU — "Oh."

JEAN VICQUEMARE – "I was wondering what questions about your sexual orientation had to do with the case you were sent there to solve. What about … Sylvie?"

INLAND EMPIRE – The unexpected change of topic momentarily freezes your thoughts, then jars you back. An icy wind blows in off the coast, freezing the warm blood running down your leg. "Who's Sylvie?" the man formerly known as The Man with Sunglasses asks.

"No one," you say, feeling strange. "It's not important."

"It better not be," he says, meaning, You better not be *partying* with her.

YOU – Blink away the memory. "I already told you, Vic."

JEAN VICQUEMARE – "And that other one ..." He pauses to think. "A Klaasje-something. I asked around. First thing anyone said was that she was extremely fuckable."

YOU – "I arrested her. She was extremely arrestable. Then I went on a coastal walk with a fisherwoman."

JEAN VICQUEMARE — "Yes-yes. Well, I'm glad we had this illuminating talk." He sighs a warm breath against your bare shoulder. "Maybe we can finish our other conversation, you know, the not so important one about a little armed uprising, so that I can pretend to get some sleep before sunrise?"

SINGLE BED – The bedsprings creak again, and the covers whisper, as you twist around to face him in the dark. He repositions his arm as you lean over him, the length of your body pressing down upon the length of his. Both your pairs of feet dangle off the end of the bed.

INTERFACING - You caress his spiky goatee, kiss him in the Revacholian manner, pushing your tongue into his mouth, sliding it against and over his, languid, deep, lovely.

YOU — Come up for air, eventually. Ask, "Do you trust me?"

JEAN VICQUEMARE — Closes his eyes. "Yes, *you* — meaning when you're not drunk or high or both. Let's move on."

YOU – Watch him for a moment, then whisper: "Drunk or high or both, I'd still take a bullet for you."

JEAN VICQUEMARE — Opens his eyes, looks grimly into yours. "I know. You'd take three." He pushes his hand between your bodies, and touches each entry scar on your abdomen with his fingertips.

ESPRIT DE CORPS — True, blue-souled brothers.

INLAND EMPIRE — Stop. Don't go back there.

PAIN THRESHOLD — There's all kinds of pain there, a spectrum ranging from physical to emotional — if you want it.

YOU — "So, how are we supposed to prevent or turn a political revolution into a social one?"

JEAN VICQUEMARE – "Good fucking question." Under the covers, he folds his arms over your back. "In fact, I asked the captain just that. You're not going to believe this, but by *talking* to instigators and potential perps, *spying* on them, and, get this, *not* using unnecessary violence."

RHETORIC – All right, so he's being sarcastic about it, because it's what *you* usually go around doing anyway. Yet, yet …

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — I'm sorry, but am I the only one too shagged out to concentrate on this clandestine conversation?

JEAN VICQUEMARE – "So," he leans up to breathe the words into your ear, and you feel his arms tightening around you, "the Bloody Murder Station is going to put kiddie gloves on while someone is clearly planning an *armed uprising*."

RHETORIC – What I am hearing is that he disagrees with the direct order to dampen your use of, how shall we phrase it, force with impunity.

LOGIC – Because it's a tall order. How is a police officer supposed to change the course of an uprising without opposing it?

RHETORIC – With words.

SUGGESTION – By suggesting and implanting new ideas and beliefs, affecting and altering both reason and the passions. Besides, no-one ordered you to be an actual revolutionary — no-one would ever believe that a cop can be a genuine one.

AUTHORITY — *How* shouldn't even *be* a question. *You are the law*.

EMPATHY — By being compassionate, empathetic, sympathetic.

ESPRIT DE CORPS — Not *a police officer* — police *officers*. With your brothers. Together.

JEAN VICQUEMARE – Leans his head back against the pillow, stares up at you in the dark. "But Pryce *remembers*. He remembers *Le Semaine Sanglante*, and he doesn't wanna see a second one."

ENCYCLOPEDIA — *Le Semaine Sanglante*, or The Bloody Week (twenty-first to the twenty-eighth of May, '10), was when Coalition forces swept one final time through all of Revachol, executing communards and anyone else in their way, taking few prisoners. The Commune of Revachol formally fell with the signing of the Revacholian Instrument of Surrender. Just over a thousand Coalition soldiers were killed in the battle, compared to about twenty-thousand Revacholians. Yeah. Good times. Ace's high!

YOU — Ace's low.

JEAN VICQUEMARE – "All the ingredients are being prepared: political and protest graffiti masking mainly as belles lettres; stockpiles of refurbished Revolution weapons, some already on the streets; and seditious pirate radio broadcasts."

YOU — "Yeah, shit is primed and ticking. But if we pin it on the ideologue, perhaps we can defuse it?"

JEAN VICQUEMARE – "I don't know … Knowing our luck, it's probably too little too late, and some other motherfucker will just …"

YOU – "We'll deal with it the captain's way. I mean, Pryce basically *is* the RCM."

JEAN VICQUEMARE – A sigh. Of relief. "The captain says we're *officers of international law, not of the Coalition military, or a corporation*. So our job is *not fealty to the Coalition, or a corporation, but to the law, which exists to protect innocent people*. And punish bad guys."

RHETORIC – The captain gave you a similar speech too.

YOU – "He said something similar to me, too."

JEAN VICQUEMARE – He draws pictures on your bare back with his middle finger. "Think you can sell it to Lieutenant Kitsuragi?"

YOU — …

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — Too shagged out to think about all this now.

YOU — "Think I can suck you off right now." You raise your eyebrows and add, "If that's okay with you?"

HAND/EYE COORDINATION — Easy peasy.

JEAN VICQUEMARE — Smiles in the dark.

THE LEDGER — *Sunrise, Parabellum*. As the sky lightens and pinkens, you, JV, JM and KK slide into a booth in the Forks cafeteria for breakfast. You wonder anxiously about Old Blonde (Mrs Candice Rupert?), but she orders *room service*. She's still a problem though: someone needs to stay behind to keep an eye on her, but you can't spare KK or JM. They need to accompany you back to the factory ruins. So, what do you do?

YOU — Wait for Mack and Chester?

THE LEDGER - You could, but who can predict when they will arrive?

YOU — Trant was working with them, so he'll know that we pulled them out of Coal City. I'll get him to come back here, and then the whole task force will be present and accounted for.

THE LEDGER — Good. Now you're problem-solving on your twinkle toes like a proper task force leader. Speaking of, JV is good at *forcing* Special Consultant TH to do stuff — you should discuss this with him.

YOU — Look at Jean, seated beside you on the buttoned booth seat, staring blankly out of the window.

PERCEPTION (SIGHT) — He is all the colours of winter in the spring.

DRAMA — Yet methinks he is *more lovely and more temperate* than both a winter's day and a spring morning, sire.

JEAN VICQUEMARE — Sensing your scrutiny, he turns and arches an eyebrow at you.

YOU — "We need Trant, here, while we're" you glance around at the empty cafeteria — "otherwise occupied."

JEAN VICQUEMARE — Takes a sip of his coffee, puts the cup onto the table, and nods. "Agreed, Harry — but we should wait to get confirmation from Jules —"

YOU — Cut him off: "Jean," look him in the eye, "you need to trust me."

PERCEPTION (SIGHT) — In your peripheral vision, you see Kim nodding, as if to himself, and Judit looking uncomfortable.

JEAN VICQUEMARE — Looks at the lieutenant. "Thank you, Lieutenant Kitsuragi." Then turns back to you. "Okay, Harry. Okay ..." He rubs his eyes, checks his wristwatch. "But Trant's still in his morning session of Lomantang."

ENCYCLOPEDIA — Lomantang is a stick-fighting martial art —

YOU — Yeah, yeah. Suppressing a yawn, you look longingly across the room at the humming coffee machine, and consider refilling your cup.

JUDIT MINOT — Her brown eyes follow your line of sight, then look at Jean, then return to you and linger a moment before looking at Jean again.

JEAN VICQUEMARE — "What is it?"

JUDIT MINOT — Shakes her head.

JEAN VICQUEMARE — "Jude ..."

JUDIT MINOT — Avoiding both of your gazes, she says, "I'm just looking out for ... You two should try to get some more sleep."

JEAN VICQUEMARE — Stares at her.

KIM KITSURAGI — Purses his lips, then drowns a smile with a gulp of tea.

YOU — Clear your throat. "Tough case. You know how it is."

KIM KITSURAGI — Nods sarcastically.

JEAN VICQUEMARE — "Are we done?"

PERCEPTION — Under the table, his knee accidentally brushes against yours.

YOU — Brush back.

INLAND EMPIRE — You can still taste him.

KIM KITSURAGI — "If we are waiting for Special Consultant Heidelstam, then I would like to take some personal time for my Volta. I skipped it this morning."

SUGGESTION — That's not a bad idea. You should all take a breather to centre yourselves.

YOU — "We should all take a breather to centre ourselves."

JEAN VICQUEMARE — Gives your knee a quick squeeze under the table. "I'm going for a run. Won't be long ... Just need to *centre.*"

YOU — Shimmy out of the booth and stand up so that he can also stand.

AUTHORITY — You could find a barber to cut your hair so that you look like an actual officer of the law.

YOU — "I have a question."

RHETORIC — Sounds important.

PERCEPTION (SIGHT) — Everyone stops what they're doing and looks at you.

YOU — "Where can a man get a haircut around here?"

JUDIT MINOT — "I know a place in South Villalobos — not far from here. I'm happy to drive you there when it opens."

YOU — "Thanks, Jude. I'd appreciate the company."

THE LEDGER — Anyway, after KK's Volta do Mar, JV's run, and your haircut — which, by the way, JM thinks "makes you look very handsome", and JV remarks reminds him of when you two first became partners — everyone is centred. Or as centred as any Precinct 41 police officer is ever likely to get.

When Special Consultant TH arrives, it strikes you that he is always centred.

VOLITION — And if he could overcome a pyrholidon addiction, you can beat your addictions, too.

THE LEDGER — TH is in his element, and takes to the task of spying on Old Blonde like a duck to water, under the pretence of sitting around and studying everyone's case files, leaving the rest of you to suit up, check your guns and tools, get your raid gear on, and head back to The Burnt Out Quarter in KK's Kineema.

YOU — I'm not going down into those tunnels after that storm. I'm not into suicide by drowning in a flash flood, thanks.

THE LEDGER — Of course you're not; everybody knows you're into suicide by sucking off your Villiers. But you still need to check out that secret tunnel. Then return with your whole squad, and probably get another precinct involved in the raid, too — after the water's settled.

Anyway, it does not take long to cross the river — not with KK piloting the sports vehicle like a projectile — but he steps on the brake after hearing you casually say that many streets in the Quarter were flooded to the balls yesterday.

YOU — Lean between the driver and passenger baskets to peer through the bug-spattered windshield as the new Next World Mural comes into view.

PERCEPTION (SIGHT) — A gang of Skulls loiters in front of the mural — probably the ones you heard boom-boom-booming past the hostel in the middle of the night, judging by their motor-carriages, which block the road from flooded gutter to flooded gutter.

INLAND EMPIRE — Cold stormwater sluices over your sneakers. You suppress a shiver and ignore the sudden need to take a leak.

VISUAL CALCULUS — You head-count eight: a man and a woman in their twenties, and six male juvies. A scan of their body language suggests that they are aggressively waiting for something or someone — you? The roadblock prevents vehicles from driving over the black aero-graffito, glistening wetly with reflected morning sun.

JEAN VICQUEMARE — "Smells like bad news to me."

KIM KITSURAGI — "To me, too, Detective Vicquemare."

EMPATHY — That's the PTSD from his pinball days talking.

JEAN VICQUEMARE — "A little premonition: they will try to weasel-word the Wayfarer Act."

THE LEDGER — Your partner JV is a seer. When you order the Skulls to unblock the road and disband, they immediately proceed to flex, spit slurs, and mis-quote snippets of the Wayfarer Act. They also claim to be "conserving public art by preventing traffic from rubbing it out, ungulate". Unfortunately, you and your partner didn't really sleep much last night, and your patience is, like, one out of ten. Also, you know the law somewhat better than they do.

So while JV pushes up his sleeves, and threatens to frogmarch every "*art vigilante* without an identification card to *jail*" for a minimum of forty-eight hours, and KK and JM watch his back, you use up the leftover 10% of your patience on explaining the finer points of the stupid Wayfarer Act.

Here we go again: although RCM officers lack the legal power to order a civilian to move along in a public space, officers can still *encourage* civilians to leave, *and* have vehicles *towed and impounded* for obstructing the flow of traffic. Not to mention the *eye-watering fines*. JV nods, backing you up, and adds, "You'll be paying till you die." KK nods, too. JM finally joins in, and the synchronized nodding is complete. Now, would the Skulls still like to fuck with you?

YOU — No. They end their roadblock.

THE LEDGER — Correct. But it costs you time as well as all of your patience, and does not discourage the *art vigilantes* from following you in their motor-carriages to the former Antony Paints factory.

However, they cannot follow you onto factory premises, because of the industrial zoning — despite JV's parting shot to them that he *honestly hopes* they will.

ANTONY PAINTS FACTORY RUINS — After a general sweep of the area, four RCM officers weave their way through faux rubble, and enter the spacious shell. Morning light slants into shadow through industrial window-holes.

SAVOIR FAIRE — Remember the acoustics: speak only in whispers if you must.

HALF LIGHT — Yeah, this place *still* feels off.

PERCEPTION (TOUCH) — Now that your hair is short, you feel a breeze blowing on the back of your neck like cold breath.

YOU — Clench your teeth to suppress a shudder.

ANTONY PAINTS FACTORY RUINS — You and your partner lead Lieutenant Kitsuragi and Patrol Officer Judit Minot down the corridor to the blacked-out concrete cavern at the end. The place is still littered with what your partner calls "paint shit", and reeks of chemical caramel that can't quite cover the ingrained smell of rot and damp.

PERCEPTION (SIGHT) — The light is off in the foreman's office. The frosty windows look like cataracts. Time to take out the flashlight.

YOU — Click on your flashlight, and point it at the crack in the cement floor to highlight it for Kim and Judit.

ANTONY PAINTS FACTORY RUINS — The crack widens before vanishing under an iron plate surrounded by orange and white traffic cones. A ladder leans against a nearby wall.

JEAN VICQUEMARE — Beckons for everyone to look at an instant photo clipped to a page of his notebook. Gestures that you should compare the scene before you with the same scene in the photo.

VISUAL CALCULUS — The traffic cones and ladder are not in the spots they occupied yesterday, suggesting that the steel plate was lifted, and the ladder used.

YOU - Nod, then hand signal for everyone to follow you up to the foreman's office. Shine your flashlight over the steel door, which hangs ajar, bent out of shape where Jean pried it open yesterday. The beam slips easily into the office beyond. A startled rat scurries out and dashes past, down the steps and into the dark.

HALF LIGHT — Your heart beats in your throat. You swallow. Breathe. Step into the office.

THE FOREMAN'S OFFICE — Looks ransacked, and you know it wasn't the processing crew — as careless as they're reputed to be. The pile of refurbished antique weapons is gone. The expensive battery-powered generator is gone, and the red cable that ran up to the white light lies torn on the carpet like a skinned snake. The wall-sized map has been censored with a splash of black industrial paint, splatters of it all over the carpet underneath. Speaking of … white powder cakes the giant bloodstain in the carpet where Dynamic Windbreaker Ski dropped after taking a point-blank slug to the chest.

YOU — Look at Jean.

INLAND EMPIRE — He's staring across the room, into the darkness beyond the toilet doorway, seeing ghosts, hearing echoes.

PAIN THRESHOLD — Help him.

REACTION SPEED — Snap him out of it. Quick!

YOU — "*Jean*." Step closer, grip his upper arm, give it a little shake.

JEAN VICQUEMARE — Blinks, looks at you. Waves away your worry.

KIM KITSURAGI — Busies himself with clicking on his flashlight, beams it into a far corner of the office. "We can confirm that the weapons are no longer here. This is *extremely* unfortunate."

EMPATHY — He didn't need to do or say that. He was just trying to give you and Jean a pocket of privacy. Also, he *is* extremely disappointed that the guns are gone.

JUDIT MINOT — Her brown eyes gaze sadly at the empty corner, then she breathes out and turns her gaze on Jean, you, Kim. "They're probably on the streets of Jamrock by now."

KIM KITSURAGI — "God, I hope not. I can't tell you how tired I am of chasing …" He turns to you and Jean. "But maybe they were in a hurry — maybe we will find them in that secret tunnel?"

YOU — "We'll Jamrock Shuffle." (Pat the business-end of the prybar hooked to your belt.)

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — Good thinking. Maybe that magenta blow will also turn up. And then you can finally —

VOLITION — Hand it over to your partner.

JEAN VICQUEMARE — Rubs his temples as he stares at you from under his hand. "Okay. Why not. Anyway, after yesterday's rain, we need to avoid the stormwater drainage system entirely …" He raises an index finger. "But, *but* confirming Cuno's account, and our own suspicions, still takes precedence …" Shaking his head, he says, "The captain would never even *consider* involving other precincts in a raid without proof."

KIM KITSURAGI — Nods. "No captain would."

JUDIT MINOT — Looks at Kim. "The sooner we complete our tasks, the sooner we can go home."

YOU — "Okay. Let's go."

ANTONY PAINTS FACTORY RUINS — Lieutenant Kitsuragi points his flashlight at the steel plate covering the hole in the floor. As you and your partner stealthily move aside the traffic cones, and pull the plate up gingerly, Patrol Officer Minot drops to one knee, aiming her pepperbox into the hole, because one can never be too careful …

PERCEPTION (SMELL) — Mildew and rot wafts up out of what is indeed a tunnel.

YOU — Lean the plate quietly against the wall with Jean's help. Then squat at the edge of the hole, and peer in.

PERCEPTION — Cement dust crumbles and rains into the glittering tunnel below.

SAVOIR FAIRE — Be careful where you step.

VISUAL CALCULUS — Looks like this hole was made with a jackhammer. That down there is a flagstone floor, perfectly flush and horizontal — definitely pre-Revolution architecture because they just don't make floors like that anymore. Three-metre drop. You should check Jean's map to get your bearings, gain some direction, before dropping in …

JEAN VICQUEMARE — Squats beside you. "Right is west," he whispers, pointing down. "So we can surmise that this was probably an access tunnel for cargo and shit. Actually — I'm surprised it's not flooded down there." He pauses to squint suspiciously at the tunnel. "Left," he points down into the darkness beyond Kim's flashlight beam, "is where we have to go."

INTERFACING — Your partner straightens and grabs the ladder.

KIM KITSURAGI — Leans over the hole, dark eyes glinting above the flashlight in his gloved hand, and whispers: "I think we've been careful enough — we still have the element of surprise."

JEAN VICQUEMARE — "It would be better for you and Jude to remain here, as backup, and because I don't trust those Skulls. Okay?"

KIM KITSURAGI — Looks at you, then at Jean, and bows his head in reply.

JUDIT MINOT — "We should have requisitioned radios."

YOU — "We'll holler if we need you. It'll echo through the tunnel."

SAVOIR FAIRE — Bet your ass it will. So, like, *don't run* either, because footsteps will echo as well.

YOU — Understood.

INTERFACING — You help your partner lower the ladder into the hole. More cement dust rains off the edge, hissing softly against the flagstones below.

JEAN VICQUEMARE — Gives the hand signal that he's going in.

YOU — Grip his shoulder. "Hold the ladder for me."